Every Dream Inside My Soul
by TheVelvetDusk
Summary: "With a wild sniffle, she chokes back an avalanche of regret and pastes a thin smile on her face...and he's hesitant, so damn hesitant that she barely recognizes him as the man who's loved her so fully, so passionately." {Spoby Oneshot, Post-5x22}


_**A/N**__**: I'm not even sure I can call this a 5x24 speculation fic, because I have a bad feeling that 5x24 will fall short of what it needs to be for me. Guys...why is shipping Spoby such a soul-crushing hardship?! Anyway, I did feel inspired to write this based on my never ending angst, but I'm not sure if I can keep doing this. I can handle a lot of things, but cheating...?**_

_**But I digress! Please give this a read &amp; I'd love to know what you think afterwards :) Thank you all for being such amazing supporters! I own nothing, including David Gray's song "This Year's Love" from which I got this fic's title. **_

* * *

She almost laughs at the sight of him, but it's only because she's _that_ surprised to see him. Well, she's surprised, exhausted, and half-nauseous at the thought of returning to this continent; the deluge of emotion that rushes over her is almost too much to withstand, and her throat closes in an attempted wail of desperation. With a wild sniffle, she chokes back an avalanche of regret and pastes a thin smile on her face.

And he's hesitant, so damn hesitant that she barely recognizes him as the man who's loved her so fully, so passionately. He takes a step toward her as the last few stragglers from her flight funnel around him, making their way toward the automatic exit doors. Spencer and Toby continue to stare at each other without speaking, but really, what is there to say?

She didn't ask him to come tonight. It feels like an ambush and it puts her on edge to know that he's had all the time in the world to prepare for this moment. She stubbornly waits him out, her mind racing dangerously as she tries to read the planes of his face. It might as well be another language carved into his skin, because she swears that she can't decipher any of it. His ice blue gaze is wholly unfamiliar and it breaks her heart instantly.

"How was your flight?"

Cold. Long. Bumpy.

"Fine."

He nods quickly and she wonders if he's honestly satisfied with that answer. She knows that he shouldn't be, and as unfair as it is, she's angry that he accepted it anyway.

"Are you hungry?" His eyes are on her forehead now, and she's suddenly struck by how pale his skin looks in the cheap glare of artificial fluorescent light.

"No, not really."

"Okay," he nearly whispers. His hand closes over the handle of her carry-on and he gives it a swift tug. "Ready to go?"

Under any other circumstances, she would have insisted on carrying her own bag. Under any other circumstances, she would also be kissing him, reveling in the feel of his arms around her, talking his ear off about what London had been like, all while lamenting the strange twist of fate that this time she had been the one to take an unaccompanied voyage across the Atlantic …

Instead she's trailing mutely behind him, letting him lead the way to his truck through the dimly lit parking lot. It isn't until the vehicle hums to life and they're both buckled in that she ventures to put her curiosity into words. "Was my mom too busy to come? It's awfully late for her to ask you to do this."

"She didn't ask. I was practically begging her to let me pick you up. Is there a reason she's keeping you on a tighter leash than usual? It took a lot of convincing, even after she told me she had appointments in Philly first thing tomorrow morning."

Spencer presses her hand to her mouth for a solitary second, wishing to squelch the mild shred of hope he's just offered her – he _begged_ to meet her at the airport?

"Spencer? Is everything okay with you and your mom?"

"I don't know," she confesses nervously, the sound of her mother's frantic voicemail ringing in her ears. "She delayed my flight because of the trial...because of Alison. If there's more to it than that, she hasn't really told me..."

He drives on in silence. She watches his knuckles tighten over the steering wheel before she closes her eyes and drops her head into her hands. "Someone else could have come, though. Aria or Emily…you didn't have to, not when you work crazy night shifts and don't–"

"I wanted to."

There's no fight in his voice, no forcefulness. It's plain and threadbare, through and through.

She has no idea what to say to that. In a sea of confusion and conflict, those three words leave her completely dumbfounded. He has no right to feel that way, but she knows that he's still oblivious to the depths of her recent mistakes. Her gut lurches at the thought of telling him, and for a moment she's terrified that her body will empty itself of the scarce meal that she forced down several hours ago.

He reads it all wrong though – she can't scrape together a reasonable response, and he immediately thinks the worst. "Look, I should have checked with you first. It was wrong to assume that you'd…well, I'm sorry…"

A rebellious tear slips between her closed lashes and she quickly brushes it away, thankful that his vision is fixed on the road. "No, don't say that…it _is_ okay, I just wasn't expecting it to be you."

As soon as the words escape her, she knows she's wounded him. He makes no sound, but his whole face twists at the declaration and he takes the next turn at a sharper angle than necessary.

* * *

The impending throb of a headache wars at his temples, but it's really no wonder as to where that's coming from – his jaw is clenched, his posture is unyielding, and his fingers are clamped around the wheel with steely determination. He wishes he could crawl right out of his skin, because he can't remember the last time he felt this uncomfortable.

Rosewood's streetlights swim into view, but they do nothing to brighten his spirit. This was a mistake and he's the only one to blame. She had no desire to talk to him before she left for Oxford, so what would she have to say to him now?

He flinches at the sudden touch of her hand on his sleeve. "Toby? Can we stop at your loft first? I texted my mom in case she was waiting up for me."

"You don't want to go home?" It's a stupid thing to ask, especially when he _wants_ to take her back to his place with everything that is within him, but he can't stop himself from saying it. He couldn't imagine a single reason for her to willingly spend another moment trapped in his presence.

"Not right now."

And that was it, not another word of clarification.

He wants to be happy about it. He wants to believe that this is a good sign. But as they awkwardly stagger out of his truck a minute later, he has no illusions of a positive outcome. She's looking gloomier than before – her eyebrows are furrowing and she refuses to meet his eyes.

"Look, if you changed your mind and want me to take you—"

"No," her head shakes briskly, those startlingly beautiful brown eyes finally peering straight at him. "I didn't change my mind."

He's completely and utterly confused, but he's also too tired to care. He trudges up the metal staircase with her luggage dangling from his hand. The lock sticks a little when he tries to open the door and he almost punches the damn thing off its hinges out of sheer frustration. Thankfully, it gives way after another vigorous shove, saving him the trouble of a bruised fist. He nods for Spencer to pass through before him, and he's slightly alarmed to see a glimmer of fear in her eyes. She's looked at him with varying levels of disapproval, anger, and resentment over the last several weeks, but never with fear. It's too eerily similar to another time, a time when he'd hurriedly fled her house to the soundtrack of her ricocheting sobs.

Toby shakes off the residual disgust that rises in his stomach, plodding forward into the loft and gesturing weakly toward the fridge – "Do you want anything? There's some leftover takeout and…"

Her body is turned away as she lifts a hand in dismissal. "Do you work tomorrow?"

"Yeah…why?"

She's pacing toward the opposite wall, still keeping her back to him. "What time do you go in?"

"Not until 3. I have the second shift."

Her head nods and he can see from across the room that she's having a hard time standing still. He's seen her like this before, and it disturbs him in a way that's difficult to express. "Spence, can you please try to relax? Let me get you some water."

She tells him not to bother, which is the exact reason he bothers anyway. He comes back to her with a water bottle in hand and a clearer resolve. Something has her in a frenzy and he isn't allowing that to continue for a second longer than necessary. "Come on. Just sit with me."

Her frame is rigid and unwelcoming, but he doesn't care anymore. He cups her arms in his hands and steers her onto the couch. She's frowning with renewed stoicism as he drapes a blanket around her shoulders. They aren't touching and it's driving him crazy, but he knows he needs to let her come to him first. He's already pushing his luck and there's no need to bait her further.

"I've done some things that I'm not proud of."

His ears strain to catch her words for how low her voice drops. It comes to him in a strum of delayed perception, and he leans forward without hesitation. "So have I, Spencer. So has everyone else in this town. You don't have to worry about telling me."

She visibly recoils at that, both of her hands climbing to shield her face. "No, Toby. This is different. This is _bad_."

"Okay," he fights to keep his tone even despite the rapid sinking of his heart, "whatever it is, we'll—"

"No," Spencer cuts him off abruptly, the hoarseness in her appeal making his chest ache. "Don't make me any promises, not when you have no idea…no reason to…"

She's lost in her own thoughts and he's in no rush to pull her out from wherever she's gone, so he waits. His nerves are tattered beyond recognition. His breathing is shallow. There's nothing he can do to reconcile this girl who's dwindling before his eyes to the valiant Spencer Hastings who knows no challenge that cannot be conquered. He's so unsure of her in this moment, and in turn, he also realizes that he's unsure of himself. What if he can't handle what she's done? What if she's breaking up with him? There are too many variables, too many instances where he's gone wrong over the last two months and—

"Jonny kissed me."

She's watching him now, her cinnamon eyes alight with panic as they flutter across his face.

"Jonny…kissed you. _Jonny_ kissed _you_." He inhales shakily, trying to keep his head screwed on straight as he visualizes that scene on repeat. "That's how it happened, right? You're saying that you didn't initiate it or…or…"

"Right," she finishes hastily. "It happened so fast and I didn't—"

"Did you want to kiss him?"

Toby's pulse hammers as indecision scrawls across her tormented appearance. "Don't lie to me, Spencer. It's a simple question."

"It…it isn't simple, though." Tears spring up and cloud her vision, but he feels nothing. He can only identify a hollow ping of desolation. She presses on, a warbling noise of sorrow ringing through her. "Looking back, I know how immature I was being the night that he left town…it was wrong to put you in that position, and I was so stupid to think that breaking into that gallery was an innocent thing…"

"But you were already mad at me." It isn't a question. He knew it then just like he knows it now – Spencer was lashing out at him, punishing him for what he was putting her through.

She reaches for him, but he can't stomach the thought of her hand on his. Her face deflates as he pulls away, and a new teardrop slides down her pale cheek. "I was mad at you, but that isn't why this happened."

"Then why? Why, Spencer? Because I can't imagine…I can't imagine a single moment when I've ever wanted to kiss, or touch, or love _anyone_ but you, and that includes times when I've been so angry with you that I couldn't even see straight!" Her head bobs with understanding, her gaze wide and a little reckless. He recognizes that on some level, she wants him to yell at her, and that thought only increases the turbulent sickness that grips him. With great effort, Toby lowers his voice and tries to stop his hands from ripping into the nearest pillow. "I want to get it, okay? But I just don't know how to…"

All he hears is the buzz of the refrigerator. He's not sure he can endure her response. Unremitting dread fills him from head to toe, like a prisoner awaiting the execution chair.

"It's been a long time since I…since I let someone in who wasn't a part of **this**—" all she does is gesture heavenward with both of her hands, but in that small motion, he automatically knows what she means. "And it wasn't just that he didn't know about A. He didn't know about _anything_, and he was so different. I could have said the most unexpected, off-the-wall, anti-Hastings thing in the whole world to him and he would have gone along with it as if it made total sense."

He doesn't want to feel a prickle of jealousy, but it happens anyway. It takes a lot out of him to resist the easy reaction; he wants to nitpick at her words, to point out that he – Toby Cavanaugh of all people – has no interest in her ability to fit into the Hastings family mold. But that isn't what she's getting at, so he shoves his insecurities further inside of himself until he can properly sort through them later.

"Toby?" The cushion beneath him dips slightly as she shifts closer. "None of what I just said could ever change how I feel about you."

"That's not true. If you aren't getting what you need from this relationship, then I don't want to hold you back anymore."

A wrenching sound radiates from somewhere at his side and he forces himself to look at her, to really see exactly what it is that he's dealing with. Spencer's shoulders are rising and falling at a distressing rate, the echo of her sniffles completely overwhelming him. He searches for the right thing to say but comes up empty-handed. Instead, he picks up the unopened water bottle that's been sitting on the coffee table and tries to hand it to her.

She shakes her head and refuses to take it, gasping a little as she attempts to speak again. "Y-you don't hold me back, T-Toby. That is **_not_** how I feel."

He ignores the pang of emotion that's begging for release, extending the bottle towards her once more. "Please drink the water, Spencer. You're scaring me."

Just when he's a moment away from forcing the drink to her lips, she dutifully takes the water from him and swallows a minuscule sip of it. He examines her expression warily, feeling a bit of his frustration ebb away as she swallows another gulp.

"Do you really feel like I pushed you to this point?"

The question is out of his mouth before he's even considered its implications. He didn't meant to vocalize it quite like that, but it's too late – she drops the water bottle between them and stares back at him like he's lost his mind.

"_No_, Toby. I…I encouraged you to go to Police Academy with no regard for how it would really affect us. The fighting…" she sighs, her lower lip trembling riotously, "…the fighting has taken its toll on me, but you are not responsible for this."

"You're right, the jackass who knew you had a boyfriend and made a move anyway is the one who is responsible for this," he grumbles derisively, his whole body keying up with venomous energy.

She makes no reply, no movement at all. He's too busy fantasizing about righteous payback to notice how still she is in light of the rather aggressive – and out of character – comment he's just made. It dawns on him gradually. She isn't talking. She's barely even breathing.

"Spencer?" He nudges her arm, making physical contact for the first time in what seems like an eternity. Her reverie is not easily broken. She remains silent, but her eyes are filling with another fresh well of tears. His own throat shrinks and he pulls back uncertainly as she slowly blinks once, then twice. "Spencer, what is it?"

"There's…" her posture crumbles as her eyes squeeze shut, her delicate form sagging backwards with the weight of what comes next. "…there's more than one jackass involved."

Blood pounds behind his eyes, roars in his ears. He stands unevenly and sucks in as much air as he can. "What…what do you mean?"

"I mean that I…I messed up when I was in London. Melissa had this friend and he took me out for—"

"No, I can't hear this." He spins away from her, his knees locking up as he stumbles a few steps toward the kitchen. "I can't _be hearing_ that you…you 'messed up' with **_a total stranger_**?!"

The crackle of her imminent sobs only adds to his own dismay. He takes no joy, no comfort, in the idea that she's in as much pain as what he's currently experiencing.

"It wasn't what you think, okay…I was tipsy and lonely and I felt _so_ out of control—"

"And let me guess! This random guy was the one who took you out, got you drunk, and let you feel as if you were free, right? He let you have options, let you escape your _normal_ life, didn't he?"

She dissolves beneath his rattling words, tears flying violently down her face and into her lap. "You're saying that like—like…"

"Like **_I'm_** the one you want to be free from?" The question makes him dizzy but he can't leave it alone.

She nods meagerly, another bubbling sob occupying her air supply. "But I—"

He holds his hands out in front of him, defending himself from whatever she'll say next. "Don't, Spencer. Don't…don't ask me to understand, because I can't right now."

The sound of her resulting cries nearly drives him to insanity. He's crippled under an all-encompassing brokenness that he thought he'd finally outrun, but its back with a brutal force. Another person has done the unthinkable – she's abandoned him, given up on him, left him behind.

Maybe he's the problem.

Before he can do anything else, he has to know – "Did you only kiss him, or…or was there more…?"

Spencer's red-rimmed eyes expand as if she's been slapped. "No, nothing more than a kiss, I swear."

He sniffles with a short nod, realizing for the first time that she's not the only one who's crying. With a rough scrub of his hands against his face, he begins to retreat. He can't bear to look at her. He can't even string two continuous thoughts together. Numbness rushes in and he's helpless against the flood of his grief.

"_Please_, _Toby_," her raspy plea bounces against his barren soul. "Please, _please_, don't go. I can't…"

He pinches the bridge of his nose, a shudder of shame channeling through him. He knows that this is part of the issue – he's made a habit of leaving her with the shattered pieces while he goes off to lick his own wounds. If he walks out the door and rides off into the black night, there's no guarantee as to when he'll see her again. The chances of them salvaging even one shred of their relationship are that much more unlikely if he refuses to stay.

"I…" he breathes out, and she's hanging on that one syllable, the sight of her limitless desperation making his decision increasingly clear, "I just need to shower, or…I don't know, I just need a minute. You're welcome to any of my clothes if you want to change."

Then he disappears into the bathroom, throws the hot water on as far as it will go, and vacantly stares at himself in the mirror until his appearance melts into the vaporous fog.

* * *

She isn't on the couch anymore. The kitchen is dark. Even the water bottle is emptied and sitting on the edge of the countertop, ready for recycling.

He's convinced that their roles have been reversed this time and his heart seizes at the thought. Darting back the hall and up to his bedroom, Toby finally feels his breath return to him when he witnesses a much missed sight. Spencer is snuggled between his sheets, her slim body engulfed in the well-worn material of his shirt, eyes resting in placid surrender. It's no surprise that she's fallen asleep; it wasn't until his skin was raw and marred with red splotches that Toby recognized what he had been hoping to accomplish – he wanted to remain under that blistering spray of water until he was fully cleansed of _her_. It didn't matter, though. He could have scoured every inch of his body for days and he was sure that this tingling revulsion would still cling to him.

With a mournful exhale, he lets himself collapse into bed next to her. He wants to weep at her scent, at her very nearness…

But even with her head nestled into the pillow next to him, it's still like there's light-years between them.

* * *

Her throat hurts and her eyes are plastered shut. She senses lingering despair before she can even consciously identify where she is or what's transpired. Something else is competing with that despair, though…something warm and familiar and dazzling.

Toby shifts slightly, mumbles an incoherent word or two, then nuzzles himself further into her neck. His head weighs on her shoulder and his bare torso is snugly aligned to hers. They're facing each other – her arm drapes across his waist, her face is propped against the inside of his sturdy bicep, and one of his legs is sandwiched between both of hers. She isn't just wearing his shirt…she's practically wearing _him_.

It's impossible to distinguish which one of them is responsible for initiating such an intimate position, but the notion of casting blame is irrelevant anyway. Their bodies are far too acquainted with each other, too at home, too compatible. To choose anything other than this embrace would have gone against all intuition. He's her second skin and she knows that the feeling goes both ways.

Or at least it _went_ both ways.

And with that thought, poignant tears rapidly gather beneath her eyelids. He has no idea what he's doing, and he'd be disgusted to know that he was doing it, but how could she ever bring herself to push him away? Panic sets in as she considers the very real possibility that this might be the last time she ever wakes up next to this boy, and it only makes the tears come faster. There's no one else – not on this continent or any other – who she'd rather start the day with, but those days could very well be numbered and it's entirely her fault.

Spencer extricates herself from his hold with the utmost care, tucking the sheet back over him as he turns over and burrows sluggishly into the mattress. With tiptoeing precaution, she slinks out of the room and parks herself on the edge of his bathtub, shutting the door just in time to muffle the potent emotions that overcome her.

When her body has at last emptied itself of this latest round of misery, she stands precariously, grips the counter, and gapes in bewilderment at the puffy-eyed girl who appears before her. This isn't new territory for her, and that's the saddest part – she's been the drug addict, the mental patient, the falsely-accused murderer, and now…the cheating ex-girlfriend?

Her stomach plummets, but there's nothing inside of her to expel. Whatever it is that woke her up is now diminishing at an alarming rate of speed. Lethargy seeps into her bones and her limbs droop against its burdensome toll. She makes a short effort of washing her face, brushing her teeth, and untangling her hair before creeping back to the bedroom to await her condemned fate.

* * *

He feels Spencer return to the bed, but nothing unusual registers within his brain. He's been dreaming the type of dream that comes with no definition, no beginning or end. He's filled with nothing more than a sensation of drifting along in cloudlike ignorance and the levity is such a welcomed change that he refuses to acknowledge anything outside of this oblivious trance.

She's there now and he aches to be with her. His arms form a web around her, tugging her to him, drawing her in with unyielding determination. He's so lost in the way that her softer body contours against his much harder one that he misses the subtle reluctance in her movements. Instinct takes over and it's been so damned long since he's had her like this that he can't even begin to evaluate what he's doing. His lips are on her neck, his hands sculpting down her back until he finally finds the hem of her stolen shirt.

"Toby…"

She sounds unhappy and he doesn't like that. He can't muster any measure of self-control to pull away, but he does his best to release the shirt and open his eyes against the sunlit morning. "Mmmm…Spence?"

There's no answer and his vision isn't adjusting well to the surge of brightness that's streaming through the room's lone window. Willowy fingers brush tentatively through his hair, then her lips connect with his forehead in a chaste kiss. He tries to hold onto her, to anchor her to the spot, but she sifts through his grasp and scoots to the other end of the mattress.

His gaze comes into focus at last, and it's then that his world crashes all around him. Her entire demeanor is cloaked in guilt and embarrassment. Her eyes are averted from him, but he can see the fear that noticeably marks those whiskey-colored orbs.

"Oh, God..." he grunts, turmoil mixing with whatever desire he's allowed himself to generate, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..."

"You don't need to apologize," she murmurs back to him without missing a beat. "I should have given you more space."

He makes an attempt to clear the gravel from his voice box, sitting up with a sense of urgency. "No, Spencer. This...this doesn't need to be a big deal."

She nods gratefully, her shoulders caving as she glances downward. "I guess I just feel bad because...because I know how much I wanted it. I wanted to be yours again."

His breath hitches at her confession. "But you _did_ stop it. You did the right thing."

She nods again and he watches in agony as a single saline droplet falls from her face and soaks into the comforter. After a stretch of excruciating silence, she whispers scratchily, "I...I am still yours, Toby...for as long as you'll have me, I'm yours."

"It doesn't feel that way." His reply is too sincere to withhold for even a second. "I can't rewrite history and pretend that you didn't...didn't give pieces of yourself away..."

"I wish I knew how to tell you just how much those kisses didn't matter...how little I felt with them, how badly I wanted it to be you..."

"Please," he gestures for her to stop, a fiery blaze beginning to escalate inside of him. "I'm not ready to do this."

She masks her injured look as best as she can, but he's not fooled. "Do you…do you think you'll ever be ready?"

His head is in his hands for several moments before he can speak. "I don't know, Spencer. To have you like this – in my bed, wearing my shirt, smelling like _my_ toothpaste, for God's sake – and to know that there are other guys who—"

"Who **_nothing_**," she recants with a wobbling outcry, "Toby, do you honestly doubt that part of the story? I've never even come close to being with—"

She's barely three words into the second question before he's gone, freeing himself from the twist of bed sheets and tearing down the hall on his still-asleep feet. His head is exploding and he's teetering on the brink of something that he knows he'll regret, so he evacuates without a word of explanation and barricades himself in the bathroom. It seems like she isn't bothering to follow him, so he makes quick use of his resources, grabbing the bottle of aspirin from inside the cabinet and slamming the medication down with a hasty handful of water. Next he's on to brushing his teeth with such vehemence that his gums will surely be bleeding by the time he's finished, and that's when he hears the creak of floorboards.

He subdues himself with a pained resilience, quietly spitting out the remainder of his toothpaste before rinsing the sink and moving towards the door. This is absolute purgatory. He can't be near her, but he also can't endure the idea of allowing her to suffer alone.

"Toby?" There's a fracture splitting through her voice, and he hears her attempt at correcting it before she presses on. "Toby…If you want me to leave, I'll leave. And you don't have to say anything, okay? I'll just…I'll go change and I can be out of here in less than five minutes."

His jaw tightens. As terrified as he is to admit it, he doesn't want her to go.

"I don't expect you to forgive me...and I certainly don't forgive myself…but I hope that someday you can believe me when I say that I could never love anyone the way I love you, Toby. You're the only one I want, and if waking up this morning was the last time that I get any…any little part of you, then I guess that will just have to be enough."

Her voice is so small at the end that he has to plant his ear to the door to catch the last few words. The floor creaks again, and she's departing. She's heading away from him, potentially walking out of his life forever.

The door flies open with such intensity that it probably dents the wall. She hasn't made it very far at all, and her progress is abruptly stifled when his eyes land on her. A question lingers in her brow, but she's too restless to even begin to articulate it.

"How do I…" he starts slowly, "…how do _we_ move forward like this? How can I know that this wouldn't happen again, Spencer?"

Her mouth parts in reply, but he's not done. "I can put myself in your shoes and see the way you were hurting, okay? I know what your life looks like and I get it – you wake up in a state of instant terror, wondering _what will happen today_? What new thing has A done, whose funeral is next, what charges will the police bring against you now? You rarely feel safe, not even in your own house. Your family is practically nonexistent and your friends are all in the same boat as you, so how can they help? They're dealing with all of this too." Toby sighs, his hand worrying with his disheveled hair as he takes a cautious step in her direction. "I was being serious the other night…Tanner is on your case and she's unrelenting when it comes to you and your friends…"

"I know," she mutters sadly, "I'm sorry for not listening. I was just being stubborn."

He nods, feeling just a tiny bit relieved to hear her say that out loud. "And I'm sorry too. I'm sorry that …I'm sorry that I've put you in a position where you feel so isolated that you're turning to other people to have an outlet from this living hell. I'm sorry that _I_ stopped being that outlet when I took this job—"

"Toby, I—"

"Please, just hear me out," he exhales in a rush, moving another step toward her. "I believe that you're sorry and I understand that you aren't blaming me for this. But, Spence…if this could happen once, how can I be sure that it won't happen again? I'd like to think that we'll get out of this town someday and put all of this behind us, but what about the future? What if we're together five years from now and I do something to piss you off and you're stressed about work, or your dissertation, or an internship…and the right guy comes along at the most opportune time and offers you something less complicated? How…how am I supposed to…"

He slouches against the wall, completely out of steam. It's a wonder he's even gotten that much out of himself, but he can't continue. It's too damn hard.

Her approach is gentle, graceful even. She lays a soft hand on his bare arm and he miraculously has no urge to flinch away from her. "What if I told you that…that my skin is absolutely crawling at the very mention of this happening again? Or that…that this conversation has been more of a living hell than _anything_ else that A could ever throw at me, with only one exception…"

"What happened last fall," he volunteers weakly, his gut coiling with dread.

Her head bobs up and down as she lets her eyes trace over his face shyly. "The lowest thing that A can do to me – the lowest thing that **anyone** can do to me – is to take you away. Nothing has ever sent me over the edge the way that…" she shakes her head, sighing roughly. "All I know is that I can't cope without you. And like I said before, I know that I don't deserve your forgiveness…because if I lose you this time, it's all on me. I did this."

There's a pause. Her eyes drift shut and a tremor runs through her entire frame. When she looks at him again, it's with a love that is devastatingly tragic. "But Toby, if you even begin to think that I could make the same mistake twice…that I could knowingly put you through this again…it's impossible. I'd _need _you. Only you."

Twin tracks of moisture run down her face. Her hand leaves his arm as she swipes at her tears, her gaze plunging to examine the hardwood flooring.

He can't speak, but he's tired of words anyway. He tenderly pushes her hand away from her face and allows his fingers to take over, not stopping until her cheeks are sufficiently dry. His thumbs smudge along her jaw, the memory of every kiss and caress that he's ever left there leaping to the forefront of his mind. He knows he can forgive her – hell, he essentially forgave her from the moment he saw her asleep in his bed last night. He also knows that he still has faith in her. It doesn't make any sense, but he can feel it in every cell of his body – she's still Spencer, she was just lost for a little while.

And suddenly he's desperate to taste her again, to have her in every possible way so that he can be certain that this is the same girl who kidnapped his heart last year and has never since returned it. His fingers probe against her ivory skin, asking wordlessly for permission to find his way back to her. Her head tilts readily under his guidance and he feels the tips of her nails on his back. It's all he needs.

Their mouths meet once, twice, three times. It's a reawakening of everything inside of him. He wants to hold off, to treat her delicately when he knows the depths of her brokenness, but it's only a pretense and she seems to sense that from the start. Her lips open from underneath his as she glides her hands up and down his exposed back. She's giving him free reign and he knows it's just as much for her own sanity as it is for his. Toby falls into her, caging her against the wall; it's inevitable. She's like the one sip of alcohol that burns and prickles as it goes down, then immediately demands that you consume more.

So he does just that – more, more, _more_. His head is bent against hers and she lets out a small gasp when he takes full possession of her mouth, his tongue discovering hers with a degree of eagerness that's startling even to him. Her hips ripple forward and her palms mold against his heated skin, serving as a glorious reminder of what few physical barriers exist between them. In less than a half-second, he's dragged his mouth away just long enough to eliminate her shirt, flinging it away and latching onto her lower lip for another intoxicated kiss. He shivers at the teasing sensation of her chest fluttering against his. He's lightheaded as he pins her more soundly to the wall, but for the first time in the last 12 hours, he's welcoming every ounce of his body's woozy response to her.

One endless leg nudges its way up to his waist and he obeys promptly, taking her thighs in his hands and thrusting her higher up the wall. His name ruptures from her red lips and the sound of it makes him wild. She's wrapped snugly around him, her slender limbs fastening to his hips, his shoulders, his neck – it feels like she's everywhere and he's fighting to keep himself together, but then Spencer rocks further into him as her teeth nibble at his earlobe. He's blind with desire and he takes it out on her neck, alternating the course of his ravaging mouth from one delicious spot to the next, earning another jolt from her core. A resounding groan echoes in his throat. His hands drop to her waist, then scoop beneath her to toy with the lacy underwear that's keeping him from what he wants most.

"No," she hums breathlessly, "you first."

The heel of her foot prods insistently against his backside. His pulse skyrockets.

He takes his time, indulgently stroking her legs from top to bottom until he's found her ankles in a gridlock behind his waist. "As you wish…"

His pajama pants land in a heap at his feet. She kisses him with a debilitating force, her hands clawing through his scalp. When she finally comes up for air, it's with another command – "Boxers too, please."

"Good idea," he mumbles between panting gulps of oxygen, "hold on—"

Spencer lets out a muffled squeal as he swiftly spins her away from the wall and resettles her against his muscled torso, hauling her with him as he staggers back to the bedroom. She releases a number of hectic kisses in a line across his shoulder as they tumble onto the mattress in unison. He's undressing them both, confiscating her last layer of clothing before complying with her request and removing his boxer briefs as well.

He's a breath away from being inside of her when she catches his face in her hands and fixes her dark eyes on his – "I love you, Toby, more than anything."

His lips touch her forehead, her nose, the dimple in her chin. "I know, sweetheart. I know."

* * *

She blinks at the hazy light filtering through her heavy eyelids, curling further into the warm shelter of his chest. There's no guessing as to why she's yielded so easily to the pull of sleep – he's methodically combing through the mess of her mahogany waves, his fingers working gently from the roots down to the ends, then back up again. It's almost enough to lure her right back into another catnap, but she knows that she has to face reality eventually. He's being so impossibly good to her, and as much as she wants this hushed seclusion to last forever, the practical side of her brain is all too aware of the fact that they're on borrowed time. Nothing has changed. The world will be no kinder to them today than it was yesterday, or the day before that.

"What's wrong, Spence?"

She's almost forgotten just how intuitive he is, the way he can read her body with such unbelievable ease. It strikes her with an overwhelming gush of comfort. This is what it means to be known, to be studied and treasured and valued by another person. It's enough to make her cry, but she shoves that urge away for Toby's sake. She refuses to torture him with another onset of tears.

"Nothing's wrong," she whispers back, "I just wish this didn't have to end."

His hand leaves her hair and sweeps along the curve of her spine. "Me neither. I could go my whole life without ever spending a second with another human being…just you and I…"

Spencer smiles into his skin, confident that he's telling the truth. "That sounds perfect to me."

Lazy silence envelopes the room. He kisses her temple and hugs her closer, aligning her ear with the steady thump of his heartbeat.

"Can we have a fresh start on my job?" he asks softly, the vibration of his words vaulting through her. "I want to meet you halfway, to share what I can…_when_ I can, but…"

She sits up on her elbows, relishing in the concern that's glowing in his aquamarine gaze. "Of course we can, Toby. I was so unreasonable—"

"We were both unreasonable," he murmurs with a melancholy smile. His fingers find hers and he weaves them together in an inescapable bond. "And we can both do better."

She leans in and kisses him in lavish adoration. "Thank you…for everything, Toby…thank you."

His face dims a little, but there's no judgment or anger in his expression. He brings their joined hands to his mouth and kisses her wrist before speaking again. "Promise me that this is over, Spencer. Promise me that we won't ever get to that point again, because…because I love you too much to survive this…"

"I promise," she responds earnestly, "I promise with my whole heart."

He welcomes her into his arms and she's sure that he's worth everything in the whole universe and then some. He's the only dream she needs.


End file.
